


a smudge of charcoal

by stardating



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Artist Steve Rogers, M/M, Mechanic Tony Stark, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, impressionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24720235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardating/pseuds/stardating
Summary: It was alright. It wasn’t like he didn’t need the stability. It wasn’t like he didn’t pour his heart and soul and last pennies into those paintings. Then Steve ran into someone and it was like the day wanted to get worse.Smol Steve Appreciation Bingo 2020: Historical AU
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 88
Collections: POTS (18+) Smol Steve Appreciation Bingo





	a smudge of charcoal

**Author's Note:**

> A final fill for the Smol Steve Bingo! The Impressionists are my favorite artists of all, especially Van Gogh. I hope you enjoy! For historical context, it's about 1864: the movement is just starting off and many now famous artists are just starting their careers.

Steve hated the Académie.

He hated them with an absolute _passion_. They were nothing but a bunch of stuck up, snobbish, narrow-minded—

He kicked at the ground, holding onto his canvases with two arms protectively. He knew they weren’t the best works in the world and he knew that the Académie thought historical scenes and religious subjects were more important than landscapes, but … But art was supposed to reflect life. It was supposed to capture what the people of that day saw and felt. How could he hope to capture something that no longer existed? Something that was now a forgotten ruin?

If they wanted to see history and religion, then they needed to contact the historians and theologians at the other colleges around Paris.

Tears stung his eyes as he went down the cobblestone streets, passing by fashion shops and cafes. He walked through crowds congregating around florist shops, farmer’s markets, and the local water fountains. It was a lovely spring day and he was perfectly miserable.

Suddenly, turning a corner, he found himself falling hard on the sidewalk.

Did he hit his head? Was that twinge of pain in his shin or elbow? There was a huge clatter of metal, but he hardly paid attention, he had to protect—

“Are you okay?”

Someone was taking his canvas out from his hands and helping him sit up.

Steve blinked and focused.

Another man was holding him steady, looking at him with such concern it made Steve’s heart skip a few more beats. He had gorgeous eyes. Steve would love to capture the honey tones that were reflecting in the sunlight … Nope, no. He couldn’t. He couldn’t afford to pay someone to sit for him. He couldn’t get anyone interested enough regardless and with this rejection, there was little hope that he could find work doing anything with a brush.

“Excuse me? Pardon moi? Entschuldigung? Um … Gabh mo leithscéal?”

“Oh, em,” Steve stammered. “Táim ceart go leor.”

“Uh. That’s all the Irish I know, sorry.”

“I’m surprised you know any.”

The man grinned sheepishly and bent down to pick up the tools that must have fallen out of the metal container that was in his hand before they collided. From the amount of wrenches and screwdrivers, Steve guessed him to be a mechanic or engineer. “I work with a lot of people from a lot of places. You pick up things if you’re paying attention enough.”

Then he gasped with alarm.

“You—you’re bruising like a peach! I can’t have—! Come on, my place isn’t too far from here and I got a bit of a kit.”

Steve protested, he knew he bruised easily, but the man was tugging him down the street, holding his canvases under his other arm with his toolbox. He tried, really, but before he could blink, he was in an upstairs apartment, sitting on an expensive couch, waiting for the stranger he had smacked into to come back with a … Steve had no idea, but god, he was uncomfortable.

Even though the man was covered in oil stains and grease, looking like he came from some factory, the apartment was practically luxurious. It was like something from a magazine selling furniture in the latest styles or a romance novel that Jane Austen had written. For instance, a wood table was placed next to a window with sheet curtains. Nothing was on it, but Steve could imagine putting a vase of flowers in the center of it and capturing the sunlight—

“Here you go.”

The man came back and handed Steve a cool, damp cloth. He was cleaned up a lot more, but missed a smudge of something right by his cheekbone.

“You …” Steve indicated where.

The man laughed and shrugged. “I always miss something. Don’t worry about it.”

Steve nodded and placed the cloth on the bruise that was beginning to throb.

“I’m sorry, I should have watched out where I was going,” Steve said. “I—”

“No, no, I shouldn’t have gone around a corner like that! You were the one with the paintings!”

“My paintings!” Steve gasped, looking for them.

“They’re fine! I got them right—” The man made a noise of dismay when he saw one of the paintings had some smudges of dark oil on them. It was a landscape, featuring a number of trees and a meadow. “I am so sorry.”

Steve felt his emotions overwhelm him once more. “It’s alright. The Académie rejected them.”

“What?” the man asked. “How? Why? These are beautiful!”

Steve laughed and shook his head, staring at his hands. “Apparently not. I should have stuck with something more traditional. Maybe tried a religious scene. It was stupid, thinking I could get in.”

The man balked. “No! The Académie are just a bunch of frumpy idiots! I should know, I’m related to one of them!”

Steve’s head snapped up.

The man pulled a chair over and sat down, giving him a … yeah. A sad smile.

If Steve were to guess, his relationship with his relation was not the best. Maybe they clashed over artistic ideals. Maybe they clashed over more important matters like money. This man seemed to be doing well for himself regardless. But how did a working class mechanic get the money to fund an apartment like this? Steve wished he had that kind of luck.

“Tony Stark. Nice to meet you …?”

“Steve Rogers.”

Tony held out a handkerchief, which Steve took gratefully as he wiped his eyes and face, trying to take in a breath. It was hard, though, because he wanted to cry his heart out. He and Bucky needed the work, the job, the recognition. If they didn’t make rent, then they would be kicked out onto the streets, and sure, it was little better than their current conditions, but autumn and winter would be here soon enough and with his health …

“Hey, hey,” Tony said, reaching out and laying a comforting hand on his arm. “It’s okay. Rejection sucks. Those idiots don’t know what they’re doing, sticking to tradition like they are.”

“They don’t even know how to paint a real person or even a vase of flowers.”

Tony laughed. “Exactly. But I’m sorry I got grease on your painting. I know how hard it is to make something, no matter what the end product turns out to be.”

“It’s okay. I was going to just reuse the canvas. Do something new.”

There was some quiet silence, just one shade away from awkward.

“Tea? Coffee?” Tony asked. “I’ve been a horrible host.”

“You probably shouldn’t be hosting me. If your father were to find me, he’d blow a … what is that term? Fuse? Gasket?”

“Both work. But I don’t care. This is my place and I can host whomever I live.”

“Oh, that’s good. But I really should be—”

His stomach growled, interrupting him.

“Lunch in exchange for a smudged painting?” Tony asked, hopeful and eager to please.

Steve sighed, but gave him a smile. “Sure. Why not?”

“Excellent!”

Lunch turned out to be a number of things thrown together: sautéed vegetables, good crusty bread with butter, a number of cheeses, and the tea that had been offered earlier. Sure, it was simple, but watching Tony cook was entertaining, because he tended to forget that he was doing one thing, before jumping to another, and mixing up all the herbs up. Steve had to jump in, nudging him away from the stove (which was a novel thing he had only seen in catalogues or back in his mother’s house growing up) to salvage their meal.

“You …” Tony finished swallowing his bread. “Should talk to Édouard Manet. He and his friends regularly meet up at Café Guerbois.”

“The place on Avenue de Clichy?” Steve exclaimed. “But they’re—I can’t! It’s like trying to get the moon and the sun share the same sky!”

Tony’s eyes suddenly twinkled. “The moon is still lovely, even in a sunlit sky.”

Steve flushed. “But still, I can’t.”

“You sure?” Tony asked. “I got the idea you’d do just fine.”

Steve snorted. “Please. I don’t need to be patronized.”

Everyone had heard of Manet’s famous café discussion groups. He and his friends were some of the leading artists of the day, even if they were associated with the movement that had yet to be named. Steve admired them from afar, knowing their talent for art was so much greater than his. He sometimes daydreamed about joining them, but—

“I’m not patronizing you. I mean it. Give it a go, show some of your paintings. Tell them you were rejected from the Académie too. Ask them about the _Société Anonyme Coopérative_.”

“You … really think so?” Steve asked.

Tony nodded. “Yes. I do. I’m speaking from experience: don’t let your doubts get in the way of your dreams. Money helps with a lot of things, like rent and food, but having all the money in the world doesn’t always fill certain voids in your heart.”

Steve flushed again, but … he was right.

“Thanks for mentioning that money _does_ help, sometimes,” he said. “If I heard another bohemian rant on about living off of art and beauty, I would’ve punched you.”

Tony laughed. “I did get punched a few times for those kind of speeches, to be honest. I deserved it, though, thinking that idealistically and simply.”

Conversation faded off into other topics: how Tony was now a successful mechanic working on machines that made life easier for the masses and pushing for reforms in the factories so those benefits would reach everyone, how his father wholeheartedly disapproved and couldn’t touch him because he was a financially independent adult, how Steve and Bucky had been with each other through thick and thin, and now, they had made it to Paris and a life that was slightly better than living in the crowded slums of London with smog and black lung.

“Thank you,” Steve said as Tony walked him to his apartment’s door. “For lunch and the … you know.”

Tony chuckled. “Just come back if you still got bumps and bruises. I wouldn’t mind seeing you again.”

“Yeah?” Steve asked, biting his lip.

“Yeah.”

Before he could second guess himself, Steve stood on his toes and grabbed Tony’s shirt, pulling him down into a kiss. Tony’s arms came around him, holding him close, and oh, that felt nice.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind seeing you again without a lump on my head.”

Tony’s cheeks were rosy and his eyes were bright.

“Tomorrow. I’ll take you out.”

“It’s a date.”

* * *

Tony laughed his head off, slapping his knees as Steve continued to debate different shades of blue with some kid named Pissarro. Bucky was sitting next to him, shaking his head and grumbling, because of course he would get into arguments about _color_ of all things. It had been some months since he and Steve initially met and it was a whirlwind.

The Académie was still rejecting their work, now called _Impressionism_ , and they were still boycotting the Salon de Paris. Tony was still not speaking to his father and his patents were coming along as scheduled. They were all still poor, doing what they could to make ends meet, but there was a lot more hope. A lot more happiness.

Turns out, when Steve wasn’t having a bad day, he was half fire, half thunderstorm. Painting, cleaning, protesting for social reform, getting into brawls over those social reforms, he did nothing in half measures. That also included loving him. Oh, they clashed at times, and there was that infamous run-in with his father, but he would much rather have Steve with all of his flaws than some sort of tepid, domestic bliss. Something like _Pride and Prejudice_ where they bantered most of their relationship (though maybe without the scandal and lack of communication).

“So, when are you gonna propose?” Bucky asked. “Before or after he and Pissarro tackle one another again?”

Tony spat out his coffee.

He asked the following morning. No one was surprised when Steve said yes.


End file.
